


Sworn

by sporadicallyceaseless



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Avengers: Age of Ultron (Movie) Compliant, Avengers: Age of Ultron (Movie) Spoilers, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-01
Updated: 2016-05-29
Packaged: 2018-05-17 17:33:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,254
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5879650
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sporadicallyceaseless/pseuds/sporadicallyceaseless
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fresh out of SHIELD lockup, Natasha’s taking to her new life just fine. But there are some things that are best learned at home. </p>
<p>Or, Natasha has found herself a nemesis...in Cooper Barton.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part One

Barton is a menace with no concept of professional boundaries or the autonomy of others.

She says it out loud. To the picture of his son on her bunk wall. To _one_ of the pictures of his son on her bunk wall.

“You’re staring at a picture of a baby dressed as a frog like it just challenged you to a prying-someone’s-fingernails-from-their-nailbeds-with-a-straight-face off. But yeah, I’m the menace.”

He says it through a laugh. And a mouthful of pasta smothered in cheese.

Natasha scowls.

“It’s on my wall.”

“It is,” he agrees.

“I would like for it not to be on my wall.”

He chews absently on the corner of a breadstick as he mulls that over. “That could be a problem,” he admits. “Maintenance has this thing about nails in the wall so I hot glued those frames up there.”

That does not sound like a better solution, but she’d be the first to admit that building maintenance is low on her list of talents. Curious, she picks at the corner of one of the frames (this one housing a photo of the small, round-faced toddler dangling from a tree branch, his father’s hands hovering centimeters from his sides). Barton has captioned it in thick, black marker- _Hang in there, baby._

She thinks it was done for her benefit, which is _horrifying_.

The edge of the frame gives slightly and a patch of the cheap paint peels off with it, stuck firmly to the glob of clear gel on the back of the frame. Rolling her eyes, Natasha releases it and presses it back in place. Her palm leaves a veiny smudge over the child’s feet, and she resists the odd urge to wipe it off.

“This is a security risk,” she tries finally, halfhearted.

Barton snorts. “You getting many visitors these days?” Then, face softened, like he’s concerned he’s offended her, he jumps off the bed and claps the crumbs off his hands before he pats her awkwardly on the shoulder. “We’ll take them out of the frames before we leave,” he promises. Completely ignoring the fact that _she_ is a massive part of said security risk. “Then you can put whatever you want in there.”

“I want to not have frames to put anything in.”

“By then, we’ll have birthday pictures!”

When he leaves, she turns to the wall of photos and narrows her focus to the center of the collage, where the small Hawkeye is depicted with a bowl of porridge upturned over his head.

The Barton spawn is a menace as well, she decides.

-

She’s fairly certain that Barton is pulling this shit with the radio on purpose.

It isn’t like she expected to find a suitable middle ground between their respective tastes. But this is ridiculous. And she can tell from the lack of artless head-bobbing, like the kind Barton demonstrated when he brought that damned hits of the nineties playlist into her first cell, that he’s only pretending to enjoy it. Motive unclear.

“You can change it if you want,” Barton interrupts. Natasha doesn’t startle. (Because Natasha _doesn’t_ startle.)

When she doesn’t say anything, he clarifies, nodding to the knob for the radio. “The music, I mean. You could find something you like.”

Shrugging, she slowly turns the volume knob all the way down until the only sound in the cabin of the rented truck is the crackling, static noise the radio makes when it’s turned off.

“Okay,” Clint nods, tapping a finger on the side of his head. “So you like silence. I’ll file that away up here.”

_What purpose could that possibly serve?_

Again, motive unclear.

Natasha shifts in her seat, rearranging her feet to fit more comfortably around the duffle bag of SHIELD hand-me-downs on the floorboards. The jeans she’s wearing for the first time in weeks are hers, though why they were taken in the first place, she can’t be sure. (Could you seriously harm someone with the metal teeth of the zipper? She’s genuinely curious.) And they returned the boots she had on when Barton brought her in, minus the two tiny stiletto blades hidden in the hollow heels. But otherwise, she’s completely outfitted in different takes on the same standard issue SHIELD merchandise. Soft flexible materials with the agency logo printed on the hip or breast pocket. Several pairs of thick socks with the symbol on the cuff.

SHIELD likes to mark their property, evidently. It’s loud. Garish even. It makes her lips twist in distaste when she thinks about it.

“Something wrong?”

“No.”

Then, “How would you kill someone with a metal zipper?”

Barton drums his fingers against the steering wheel, face tightened in concentration.

“You’d think friction would be the key,” he muses.

Lights are on in the main house when they park the truck in a godforsaken _barn_ of all things, and heave their bags over their shoulders. Barton is cradling his heavy, hard-shell bow case in his arms rather than using the utility strap fixed to the back of it. Like he doesn’t trust his precious weapon to a strip of nylon webbing.

That, that kind of possessiveness she can understand. Much the same as an old handler who would rest his massive hand on the back of her neck in times of stress, or the way she adjusts her gait to feel the slight outline of the makeshift weapon strapped to her inner thigh. (A sharpened piece of wood, fashioned from the bottom of a dresser drawer she appropriated for the cause.)

“Watch the step,” Barton grunts, shifting his duffel on his back. “Dry rot’s a bitch.”

Laura Barton isn’t visibly armed and her muscle tone falls somewhere on the middle of the scale, not weak by any means but also nowhere near their standards. Which makes her casual attitude towards the lethal houseguest in her living room all the more baffling. But there she is, settled under a blanket on the loveseat, smiling widely at _both_ of them for reasons unknown. Her face is soft, young, though Natasha knows she and Clint probably have a few years on Natasha herself, and it’s easy to read her expression as tired, yes, but also very glad to see Barton.

Not a reaction Natasha has frequently seen him evoke.

Clint practically hauls his wife off her feet as he pulls her in for a hug, and she’s forced to stand on her toes to keep her connection to the ground.

“You didn’t have to wait up,” he laughs, but the meaning is lost because he’s grinning into Laura’s hair, clearly pleased that she did.

Laura strokes her husband’s shoulder once more and steps away, tugging the hem of her shirt down where it had ridden up. “It’s cute that you think I waited up and not that it takes this long to put your son to bed.”

“I’ll talk to him,” he promises solemnly, visibly holding back a grin.

Laura nods, equally serious, which is to say, not very. “He’ll babble unintelligibly back at you.”

Awkwardly, Natasha shifts slightly on her feet, suddenly the slightest bit uncomfortable with carrying a concealed weapon around these people. She suspects that will pass quickly.

A floorboard groans under her heel, drawing the Bartons’ attention. Clint smiles at her in what might be a comforting fashion if she were susceptible to such things, and steps to her side, hovering a hand near the back of her shoulder but not actually touching her. “Presenting…the one…the only-”

“Hi, Natasha,” Laura says, rolling her eyes, presumably fondly considering she married the man. She gently grasps her forearm and pulls her into a brief but tight hug. “We’re so glad you’re here.”

Natasha finds that highly unlikely, but the look on Laura’s face seems genuine, so either she’s more highly trained than she appears to be or she’s been woefully misinformed.

Barton’s grinning _proudly_ at her, probably because he knows how uncomfortably stiff she becomes with unnecessary physical contact. It’s the same look he started giving her when she started showing the _very_ early signs of something cooperation-adjacent during her first weeks at SHIELD. A sort of, _‘look at you, not getting yourself shot’_  kind of smile. Bastard.

“Thank you,” she says quietly, voice a bit gravelly from weeks of rare, reluctant use. “I…it’s very nice to be here.”

Barton beams.

Yawning, Laura shakes her head slightly and scrubs her hands over her eyes. “Okay,” she says brightly when she looks up again. “I promise to be a better host after some uninterrupted sleep, but for now, welcome home, there’s two plates of spaghetti in the fridge, and if you’re hungry after that, I’m sure there’s some clumps of it still sticking to the ceiling. Clint, your kid’s a demon.”

“I know,” he sighs fondly, looking like he can’t quite believe his luck. “Isn’t it great?”

“Not particularly.”

She kisses Clint and squeezes Natasha’s arm before dragging herself up the stairs, Barton grinning at the back of her until she disappears around the corner, lovesick like a damned fool.

“I’m a lucky man, Romanov.”

That doesn’t seem like something she should have any input on so she stays quiet, compiling a mental inventory of what she’s seen of the farm so far. It’s isolated which could work for or against her depending on the context. It’s large enough that it would be hard to secure the entire property, and she’s likely to be given a little more freedom this far away from the general public. However, in a rural area like this if she’s forced to run for any reason, she’s sure she would feel an arrow between her shoulder blades before she ever reached a crowd to disappear into.

Barton touches her shoulder from behind. She tenses.

“Natasha?” he asks quietly. “You good?”

“Yes,” she mumbles. “Fine.”

She passes on the cold spaghetti, partly because she’s never known Italian to reheat well and partly because Barton made her _‘just try’_ a greasy burger the size of a small woodland animal on the drive there. ‘Just try’ is slowing becoming Natasha’s least favorite phrase in the English language.

Clint pinches a couple strands of his own spaghetti, fresh from the fridge, and drops them into his mouth with uncharacteristically poor aim, leaving a trail of it down his chin.

Natasha frowns. “That’s revolting.”

“It is!”

Bumping his shoulder into hers, Clint gives her a cheerful, bright-eyed look, the implications of which she has difficulty interpreting, and nods towards the stairs.

“That’s mine and Laura’s,” he points out, as they pass a closed door by the stairway. “Bathroom…Coop’s room. Want to see him?”

He asks so eagerly, like a preschooler participating in their very first show-and-tell, that she feels a twinge of something akin to guilt when turning him down. Barton looks in anyway. He reemerges looking struck dumb with more fatherly pride than Natasha has ever seen up close. It’s…unsettling.

The Barton’s spare bedroom is small and crowded in ways that she is both bewildered and fascinated by. It’s overwhelmed by heavy oak furniture topped with picture frames and assorted mementos that don’t make sense without the memories attached to them. In addition to the overhead light, there are three different lamps, including one placed unnervingly high on the tower of stacked books and magazines on the nightstand. Would two not have been sufficient? Or one?

Four walls and not one of them is left bare enough to allow her eyes to rest. She’s never known anyone to display this much of themselves anywhere, let alone in one room.

Barton lingers awkwardly in the doorway, pointing out the highlights of the room, like the bureau where she can swap out SHIELD’s hand-me-downs for Laura’s and the window that ‘takes a little teamwork’ to get open.

“I’ll fix it,” he promises. Natasha shrugs.

“And Laura thinks there’s a draft in here.” He squints and holds his hand out, like he can summon the rumored breeze. “I keep telling her this house is a fortified stronghold against the elements…but…”

He pauses, sniper’s instinct probably picking up on the exact direction, strength, and speed of the draft that had suddenly made itself known.

Barton frowns. “I’ll fix that too.”

From the faded painted trunk at the foot of the bed, he unearths a mountain of equally worn blankets and semi-smooths them out over the bedspread before giving up and leaving the rest in a rumpled mound.

“Okay,” he sighs, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck. “Well, here it is. Home, sweet home. What do you think?”

“…it’s nice. Very nice.” She clears her throat, suddenly feeling like she should have something more than ‘nice’ to say. “Thank you…for…I’m very grateful.”

Not much better, and certainly not up to her usual standards, but it’s all she can muster at the moment. Awkwardly, she lowers herself carefully onto the bed and strokes her fingers over the collection of fabrics. Two quilted, some fleece, and large yellowish one that might be crocheted. Not a single one made of the familiar harsh, grey wool that had scratched at her legs for as long as she could remember. A vaguely defensive feeling catches in her throat, but on whose behalf, she isn’t sure.

“Natasha?”

Before he can ask, she shakes her head. “Fine. I’m fine.”

Barton nods and drops himself down on the bed next to her, landing so heavily that the mattress rebounds and nearly bounces her off onto the floor. “Okay. If you need anything-”

“I won’t need anything.”

Frowning, Barton knocks his shoulder into hers. “If you need anything,” he stresses. “Laura and I are right across the hall. Hell, Cooper will probably have us up anyway.”

“I will not need anything,” she insists.

“Fine, fine. I’ll get out of your hair.” He groans like a man in pain when he gets up from the bed, though Natasha has it on good authority that he is in fine shape, and his joints should not be giving him trouble. “You know, you’re even quieter here than you were at SHIELD. And I didn’t think that was possible.”

She shrugs. Clearly it was.

Resigned to her continued solemnity, he nods.

He makes it to the doorway before he turns around and slumps against the side.

“Look,” Barton says, suddenly tired looking, with no trace of the usual clever, boisterous look in his face- the one that lets him slip in and out of places positions, situations, unnoticed. Underestimated. “I know this isn’t what you’re used to and you’re probably not going to believe this, but I have a good feeling about this. You’re going to be okay here.”

She doesn’t doubt that. She’s been ‘ _okay’_ in far worse places.

When Natasha settles herself in the guest bed that night, she discovers an 8x12 framed photo dominating the nightstand, right at eye level.

It’s the Barton offspring. In his Easter best, diapered behind situated in a basket of cellophane grass, and smiling from ear to tiny ear.

She scowls and turns it the other direction.

_Menaces_.

 


	2. Part Two

This wide-eyed, hopeful baby blinking thing is _not_ working for her.

Cooper Barton has decided that she’s going to starve without the slobbery, microscopic scraps of food he tries to feed her from his tray. He has a handful of cut green beans in his tiny palm and he is determined to coax them down her throat. At first, she ignores it. But then his hand latches on to her sleeve and pulls her own hand closer to him. It is…difficult to ignore.

“No, thank you,” she says politely. “I’m fine.”

He tilts his head, fixing her with a stare that she is almost sure should be beyond his capabilities. (Child development is not her specialty.) More urgently, the Barton spawn thrusts the beans roughly towards her mouth.

Natasha frowns, and very carefully pries his fingers from her arm.

She hears what sounds like a snort and turns just in time to see Laura smiling into her napkin before she uses it to pluck a string of cheese from her chin. She and her husband were clearly made for each other.

Wrinkling her nose, Natasha lifts her slice of pizza off the plate and lets some grease run off to puddle on her plate. There doesn’t seem to be a suitable tactic to eat this neatly with her hands, but Barton balked at her request for cutlery so she’ll have to manage.

“How’re you liking the pepperoni, Natasha?” Barton asks. “I looked up Russian pizza, but it wanted me to cover the thing in fish. I figured you wouldn’t mind Americanizing on this one.”

She is _not_ liking the pepperoni in the slightest. That, _or_ the cheese with the consistency similar to chewing gum. However, she did not pay for this meal or the bed they’ve allowed her to sleep in, so she does not have room to complain even if she were inclined to.

Finally, she settles for, “I have never had pizza with fish on it.”

Admittedly, Natasha could count the times she had _any_ pizza at all on a single hand that had lost two fingers to an explosion.

This…this thing where they all sit down together to eat a meal in the Barton’s tiny kitchen- it’s not working for her either.

It’s…strange. Not painful or frightening strange, but uncomfortable nonetheless.

In all fairness, she was given the option of eating in her room. Where she had (wisely) chosen to sequester herself until now. Will this be a nightly occurrence? Will she be expected to attend once a day? Or three times, for each meal?

She nips at the end of her slice, and chews the bite a little too thoroughly, preferring to listen to the sound of crunch over her own thoughts.

There’s a low, disconcerting whining sound coming from the high chair, and Natasha is startled to discover that it seems to be coming from the child. Cooper is still patiently holding an expectant hand in her direction, green bean mostly mashed in his palm by now.

“Really,” she insists. “I don’t like them much anyway.”

Laura chuckles. “He’s not going to let up. Trust me, I’ve tried. It’s like trying to out-stubborn a brick wall with chubby cheeks.”

She’s reluctant but consciously relaxes her face so it doesn’t show. Natasha has made a lot of concessions on her values since she made her most recent career change, but she draws the line at taking food out of their child’s mouth.

Even if she weren’t already against eating the thing, the green bean he slaps into her hand is coated in drool and unidentifiable crumbs. She smoothly tosses it in the air and manipulates the angle so it looks like she catches it in her mouth instead of the hand behind her back. The plan was to drop it back on his tray, but before she can, the baby erupts into violent convulsions, emitting choked, breathless little noises that almost sound like barks. 

Panicked, Natasha looks back and forth between the two older Bartons who are smiling at each other, seemingly unaware that their child is malfunctioning.

“Is she funny, Coop?” Clint almost _coos_ in a tone of voice that grates on her ears almost as badly as the discharge of improperly loaded handgun. “Huh? Is Nat funny?”

Is the implication here that the kid is _laughing_? With what, his entire body?

With that new information, she looks back at him and supposes she can see it. Though the splotchy red face still looks concerning.

Cooper bounces back quickly and returns his focus to feeding the stranger at his family’s table. She repeats the trick, and to her surprise, he laughs just as raucously as if he was seeing it for the very first time. Do babies form memories? Short term ones?

It goes on for…far too long. Eventually Laura puts a stop to it when she undoes some complicated strap system and frees her child from the height chair.

“Between the two of you, the kid’s going to join the circus before he joins the boy scouts,” she complains, but the eye roll that accompanies doesn’t seem harsh so she likely isn’t genuinely angry. “I’m putting him to bed before he gets any more ideas.”

Clint frowns. “If he wants to join the circus we have to teach him something better than bean tossing. No offense, Natasha.”

She bristles, not because he insulted her bean tossing but because he thought she’d care that he insulted her bean tossing. “No offense was taken.”

Laura kicks her husband’s chair. “Fine, great. You put some thought into that while we go to sleep. Say night, daddy! Sleep tight!”

She dangles the baby in front of his father so they can press equally sloppy kisses all over each other’s faces. Clint is _glowing_ , and it occurs to Natasha that this is probably the first time he’s kissed his son goodnight in at least a month. Partly because of her. She looks down at the pizza she has hardly touched and frowns.

“And say night, Natasha! Don’t let the bed bugs bite!”

And then the baby is in front of _her,_ lips smacking in an exaggerated pucker. Natasha freezes, and it gives him the opportunity press his lips to her nose.

_If her instructors could see her now…_

When she manages to tear her eyes from her plate, Barton hastily yanks one corner of his mouth up to meet the other, so his smirk passingly resembles an innocent smile. He’s not fooling anyone, least of all her.

“Good day?” he asks, like he isn’t aware that she spent its entirety in his guest room.

She shrugs, following his example and placing her plate in the sink. “Quiet.”

“We could all go for a little quiet sometimes.”

As she’s contemplating the appropriate amount of time before she can retreat to her own space, Barton unearths a deck of playing cards from a drawer that seems to serve no specific purpose (she spies binder clips, packaged cashews, and what looks like the magazine to a Chechen-made handgun). There’s an elastic band holding the deck together, which Barton promptly winds on his fingers and shoots at her forehead.

Natasha glares.

“There she is!” Clint says brightly, deftly shuffling the cards from hand to hand. “You haven’t looked at me like that all day. And here I thought your face was stuck like that.”

He slides the deck to the center of the table and takes the top card. “Two of clubs, right here.”

The way he says it is a hair too casual. Weightless even, airy. Barton’s lying. Motive unclear.

“No, it isn’t.”                       

Grinning, he flips it to reveal the four of hearts and Frisbee tosses it into her lap. “Nice. Your point. Go ahead, pick one.”

She catches on and takes a queen from the deck.

“The five of diamonds.”

Barton squints at her and tilts his head, scrutinizing her face. He shrugs. “Yeah, I buy that.”

She smiles. Her point.

As it turns out, Natasha is _excellent_ at this game. And Clint doesn’t seem to genuinely mind the crushing loss he suffers. They’re more than halfway through the deck before he shows even a hint of frustration.

“You make that exact same face every single round, and somehow I always end up thinking what you want me to think.”

Natasha smirks and launches the elastic band back at _his_ forehead. “It’s part of my charm.”

-

Day two. If she doesn’t wish to outstay her welcome (which she is almost eighty percent sure she doesn’t want to do), Natasha knows she has to surface from the Barton’s guest room and make herself useful.

Husband and wife are making a royal mess of their kitchen as they prepare a delicious looking breakfast that she’s sure will sit too heavily in her stomach. The child is in his height chair, chewing on the corner of a book. When he spots her, he flings the book to the floor, as it hadn’t been abused enough that morning, and grins widely, arms stretched expectantly towards her. She awkwardly pats the air next to his shoulder before she sits down at the table.

“Good morning,” Laura says kindly before she catches sight of her son and her voice pitches up several octaves. “Who’s that, Cooper? Huh? Who is that?”

At this point, Natasha knows full well that the Barton spawn has yet to master the necessary skills for verbal communication, so why they ask him so many questions is beyond her.

“Looks like Natasha has a fan,” Barton teases, flipping a pancake higher than necessary and rushing to catch it in the skillet.

It’s unfortunately true. Cooper strains to lean over the tray trapping him in his chair, reaching for her for reasons unknown.

She’s given it some thought and has decided intervention is required. The poor child doesn’t understand the danger association with her poses, and it would be beneath her not to make him aware.

Hopefully Clint and Laura don’t take offense to her making their child hate her.

She expects it to be easy enough. He is, after all, an infant, and Natasha has in the past been known to make roomfuls of grown men weep _like_ infants. Figuring sooner is better than later, she turns her chair so she and Cooper are staring into each other’s eyes and pulls her face into a wicked grimace, a grotesque expression that once made a Maldavian politician cross himself in fear.

The baby…laughs. Enthusiastically. So hard in fact, that the only logical explanation she can come to is that he was somehow aware of her intentions and is amused not only by her face but by her failure. Squinting thoughtfully, she studies his face, looking for signs that she may have underestimated the depth of his intuition.

“Oh sure,” Barton complains. “Out bluff me 44 to 8, but Coop’s got your number already.”

Natasha hesitates, debating the merits of handing this information out casually, eventually deciding it would do her more good than harm if she and Barton are to partner in the field.

“You have a tell,” she says finally.

Barton reels, offended. “I do _not_ have a tell! You think I’d be alive and kicking right now if I had a tell?”

“You don’t have a tell. That’s the tell.”

She lets that sink in, watching with a smile as Barton stares dumbstruck back at her, Laura hides a silent, shaking laugh behind her hand, and Cooper, as always, finds the conversation to be a laugh a minute.

“You relax completely when you lie. When you’re honest, you tense slightly in anticipation of a reaction. When you relax like that, you’re telling me you have no stake in the game.”

That rings in silence for a few seconds too long. Natasha herself tenses, suddenly uncomfortable with the thought of discussing tricks of the trade at the Barton’s breakfast table. In earshot of their son.

“Thank the good lord above us, he finally found someone besides me to play that stupid game with.”

Laura comes from behind her and puts a stack of pancakes that’s too heavy to hold with one hand down in front of her.

“Chocolate chip,” she says, smiling brightly like a child that’s just gotten away with the loot from a cookie jar.

They smell _heavenly_.

It’s the first time she cleans her plate in months.

-

Barton gives her plenty of options to occupy herself with. Renovation with him, help Laura look after the baby, turn on the television because her ‘ _brain could use a little rot_ ’.

“Or you could tell me where to shove my suggestions and do whatever the hell you want,” he offers helpfully.

She sticks close to Clint at first, but soon discovers that whatever weatherizing is, she has no interest in it. And although she supposes that physical conditioning would fall under the category of ‘whatever the hell she wants’ she’s reluctant to take on an activity that wasn’t specifically suggested.

Unstructured time is not something she has had much experience with.

Midafternoon, Natasha puts some cursory thought into the television idea but when she looks in the living room, she finds Laura reclined on the couch, computer in her lap, while Cooper entertains himself by pushing toy cars back and forth across the area rug.

“Natasha!” Laura calls before she can disappear up the stairs. “Can you come help me with something?”

Ominously, there’s a wound skein of yarn on the coffee table in front of her.

“I don’t knit,” Natasha says firmly. That is _not_ one of the values she’s willing to compromise on.

“Oh no, and I wouldn’t want that for you.” She pats the seat next to her and Natasha takes the hint and sits down. “ _I_ don’t knit. Which is why we’re searching the internet for something that looks like it could be made out of the yarn my mother got me for Christmas last year. Keep in mind, I have pounds of the stuff and I’ve supposedly been working on it for months, so it should be very impressive.”

Natasha decides that she likes Laura Barton.

They find a suitable afghan that Laura plans to beat up until looks like something she could realistically have made and order a second one that she insists Natasha take back to put on her bunk at the base.

While Clint is up in the guest room draft-proofing and Laura is introducing her to the horrifying world of afternoon talk shows, Cooper approaches and tries to insert himself between them. Natasha jumps to let him and curls herself into the smallest possible form on the opposite end of the couch. Cooper sprawls out across the middle cushion, head in his mother’s lap. When she turns to look at Laura, who wants to know if she has any dinner requests, the Barton spawn catches her eye and cautiously stretches his socked foot to prod at her thigh.

She sighs.

The child would crawl into an alligator’s open jaws if given the opportunity.


	3. Part Three

****If the child’s foolish trust in those more dangerous than itself comes from its father, its tenacity can be attributed to its mother.

Cooper wants several things from her, mainly her time, attention, and to fiddle with her hair, and in his pursuit of them, he pursues _her_. Crawls after her, following so closely that, with each footfall, she has to make sure his tiny fingers aren’t under her heels before pressing them to the floor. It makes her feel like she’s being surveilled. Overtly.

For her part, Laura Barton seems determined only to make her _comfortable_ in their home. It’s a hopeless endeavor because Natasha doesn’t _do_ comfortable, it’s beyond her capabilities, but still. She soldiers on.

Natasha sweats through her sheets at night, a result of nightmares that she refuses to acknowledge, and finds them replaced with fresh ones by midafternoon. If she escapes to the room set aside for her to get some breathing room and quiet (which she often does), Laura doesn’t allow her to be disturbed. Not by Cooper or by Barton, who can sometimes manage to leave her well enough alone but also maintains the mistaken ideation that Natasha is better off in his company than out of it.

And, perplexingly, she has demonstrated the ability identify the line where the physical affection she routinely shows would become too much for Natasha and avoid crossing it. Without avoiding touch all together.

That level of concern for…well, _her_ is unfamiliar. And has caused a few misunderstandings.

The incident with the pan, for instance.

They cook together, the three of them. (Four, if you count Cooper who supervises from his height chair. Natasha does _not_ because he does nothing and is therefore not a useful contributor.) And while Natasha does not excel in the culinary arts, she doesn’t hate cooking and could likely learn to excel at it given sufficient time. She is precise by nature which would probably be an asset. And years of extensive traveling has left her with a refined palate.

A palate that does not appreciate _spaghetti-o’s_ , as she learned as recently as lunch that day.

“Natasha.” Laura, who has her hands full with a colander and salad bowl balanced on her forearms, bumps a hip into hers to nudge her away from the sink. “If you want, there’s a packet of that rice you like in the cabinet. You could throw it on the stove.”

It takes her a second but she finally realizes that she’s talking about the sticky chicken-flavored rice she’d cleaned from her plate earlier that week. Natasha studies the other woman’s face and eventually decides that Laura isn’t masking a hidden preference and it’s genuinely up to her. No rice then.

When she doesn’t move to prepare it, Clint frowns. “Come on,” he goads. “You like it, we have it. No reason not to make it.”

The attention they’ve been putting towards sussing out things that she supposedly likes is…nice? She supposes. Also unnecessary. It’s not like she doesn’t eat what is put in front of her.

Clint sighs. “Natasha, don’t be stubborn.”

They startle when Cooper starts to wail, loud, exaggerated cries that she’s heard Laura refer to as ‘crocodile tears’. The dry cereal he’s been stacking and lining up on his tray is now all either on the kitchen floor or somewhere on his person, more likely dropped into the folds of his shirt than in his stomach.

“It’s coming, buddy.” Clint digs a finger into the side of his neck, and Cooper’s cries turn to shrieks of delight as he makes wiggly fingers back at his father, trying to tickle him back.

The oven timer goes off and Barton waved absently at her, Laura still occupied with the salad.

“Can you get that?”

Natasha pauses. To her knowledge, there’s only one oven mitt in the kitchen and it’s under a steaming dish of vegetables, protecting the wood of the table from the heat. Probably he doesn’t expect her to-

But he did seem frustrated with her a second ago. Is this-?

She swallows, yanks the oven door open, and grabs the pan with her bare hand, squeezing tightly despite the flash of paradoxical cold that usually precedes a burn.

“Natasha!”

Then Barton is pressed against her back, hands closing over hers to pry her fingers away from the heated metal. He walks her forward from behind, forcing her to drop the pan into the sink, where the chicken slides into a thin layer of suds and disappears. He flicks the cold water on and holds both her hands under the stream, though she deliberately kept the right one from being damaged.

“It’s okay,” Laura says calmly. And although she’s bouncing Cooper, who started to whimper when Clint raised his voice, it seems to be directed at the whole kitchen. “Accidents happen.”

But from the way Barton is looking at her, he knows better. Natasha stills and drops her gaze to the bottom of the sink, where stray strips of soggy chicken are visible under the dissolving soap bubbles.

It’s very possible that she misinterpreted the situation.

When she looks up, Laura and Clint are sharing a look over her head until they notice her attention and break it up.

Laura kisses Cooper’s forehead and hikes him up further on her hip. “What do you think, big man? Should we go find your bink?”

They disappear up the stairs in search of the pacifier, as Clint gently spreads the fingers of her stinging left hand, examining the web of swollen red marks where the skin touched the crumpled foil that was covering the pan. She sees him swallow hard before he releases it.

“We have some burn ointment in the bathroom cabinet,” he says softly. “And Natasha?”

“Yes?”

“If I ever try to tell you to burn yourself, I want you to shoot me.”

-

For reasons beyond her, the Barton spawn consistently wants to be held. By _her_.

And, for reasons seemingly beyond _him_ , Natasha avoids doing so at all costs.

She holds out for three weeks.

It would have been longer, but the child makes a bold move and forces her hand.

Natasha is sitting on her bed when it happens, using a borrowed laptop to check on a few pies that have recently had her finger forcibly ripped from them. Out of curiosity, of course, because it’s not like she can act on whatever she finds from an isolated farm in _Iowa_.

So enthralled by her research, she doesn’t hear anyone on the other side of the door until it opens, seemingly on its own. And when she peers around the computer screen to investigate, she sees Cooper, crawling on hands and knees and pushing the door open with his forehead.

Natasha scowls.

“Barton? Laura? Your child.”

When no one responds, she reluctantly untangles herself from her cross-legged position and gets to her feet, careful not to step on him and giving him a wide berth on her way to the door. Hesitant to leave him unattended, she turns and looks over her shoulder to address him.

“Stay there,” she orders. “I’ll be right back.”

She doesn’t go far. A few sideways steps out the door, until she can look both ways down the empty hallway while still keeping half an eye on the baby.

“Laura?”

Her muffled voice answers from behind a closed door across the hall. “In the shower!”

“Barton!”

“In the- um, shaving!”

Wrinkling her nose, Natasha steps back into the room and pulls the door shut. _Subtle_.

“Your parents are otherwise occupied.”

Cooper blinks at her, flashing a gummy smile.

Sighing, she sits back on the bed and adjusts the laptop screen so she can keep one eye fixed on it while the other moves with the child.

At first he’s still, which suits Natasha just fine. But it doesn’t last. Suspicious, her eyes follow him as he explores the back wall, navigating his way from the dresser to the chair by the window. Unnervingly, he spots the electrical outlet before she does and replots his course to take a closer look.

“Eh!”

Natasha shouts it, like she’s heard Laura do a hundred times in the short time she’s been on the farm.

He considers her for a moment, like he’s not sure he has any reason to bend to her authority. If she’s honest with herself, of all the things he does to bother her, it’s not the slobbery hands he puts all over her, but the refusal to respect her downright _scariness_ that gets to her the most.

He smiles at her and then, slowly, lifts his arms in the universal signal for ‘ _pick me up_ ’.

“No,” she says firmly. “You are clearly mobile. You can get where you need to without my help.”

Nonplussed, Cooper continues about his business, which seems to consist of sliding his hands into her shoes and walking them up the wall…then down the wall…across the dresser…banging them on the side of the nightstand.

She blinks back to her screen for a second, but a flash of movement out of the corner of her eye has her flinging the laptop off of her and scrambling off the bed.

Cooper has both hands around the cord to the table lamp and has tugged it off its perch, sending it careening to floor until Natasha grabs it out of the air, inches from his head.

Her hearing is impaired, and it takes a minute for her to come to the realization that it’s her own breath rushing in her ears.

_When’s the last time her breathing was so labored after anything less than strenuous exercise? That her heart rate was so astronomically out of her control?_

Natasha rubs at the sudden ache in her chest as she carefully replaces the lamp.

Feeling something akin to exhaustion, she fixes Cooper with her sternest, most earnest look. “That was a terrible idea.”

His lower lip wobbles.

_Oh no._

Something in the pit of her stomach tells her that unless she does something quickly, there are going to be tears. Crocodile or otherwise.

“Laura! Clint!”

He lifts his arms up at her again, and this time, she knows what she’s expected to do.

“Fine,” Natasha growls.

Really, it’s not like she can be more of a danger to him than he is to himself.

Carefully, she slides her hands under his arms and lifts him onto her hip, holding him tightly against her side.

“There,” she says uneasily. “This should make you happy. It’s what you wanted, isn’t it?”

Waving his hands, seemingly at random, he manages to sock her lightly on the nose and giggles at the face she makes when she flinches.

_Where’s a crocodile when you need one?_

She catches his fist in hers and shakes it lightly, swaying gently as she moves into the hall. When he rests his head on her shoulder, Natasha thinks to check the hall clock and discovers that they’re fast approaching the midday hour where the house is quiet and Cooper’s door usually remains closed.

Nap time, then.

How does she go about-?

Not at all convinced of the likelihood of this working, Natasha lowers herself into the rocking chair in the child’s room and braces a gentle hand behind Cooper’s head. He buries his face in her neck, which would normally make her jittery but her instincts apparently don’t label him as a threat.

Assumedly, his own instincts have failed him on that front as well because from what she’s heard about young children, they, like animals, are innately good judges of character. But this one doesn’t seem to be.

Just like his father.

Eventually, the prodigal parents return, and Natasha has halfway formulated a cutting comment about parental responsibility before she realizes she’s been manipulated.

Scowling, she hands a sleeping Cooper to his mother and vacates the rocking chair so Laura can take her place.

Clint’s grinning at her, and damn it all to hell, they didn’t even bother to wet their hair to complete the illusion. Shouldn’t they at least respect her that much?

Scowling, Natasha retreats to her room.

She’s going soft.

 


	4. Part Four

Somehow Natasha ends up painting the porch railing.

She doesn't mind it. It's not like she has other important business to attend to or anything else to fill her days with. (The majority of her…let's call them hobbies, are no longer feasible.)

It's nice to have a project and not _be_ the project for once.

Supposedly, Barton is building a set of porch furniture that she'll have to paint to match but that remains to be seen. Yes, he disappears into the barn from time to time and there's some muffled hammering noises and the high pitched shriek of an electric saw, but so far, no one has seen any results. Laura says the same thing led up to the big reveal of Cooper's handmade crib.

Because the porch railing is a stationary project and whatever Clint and Laura are working on tends not to be, Cooper spends some afternoons in Natasha's care. Her job is simple. It's her responsibility to return him, relatively unscathed, to his parents at the end of the day and lather him with sunscreen every hour, on the hour.

It's a responsibility she takes very seriously.

While she works, he sits on a blanket in the shade. Or rather, there is a blanket spread out on the porch for him to sit on, but he mostly ignores it. He drives toy cars up her back and whines until she surrenders and allows herself to be plastered with stickers. Once, she forgets about one on her face and ends up with a tan line in the shape of a turtle on her cheek.

It's…undignified.

When Barton sees it, he laughs his ass off.

Laura brings her lemonade with ice and dumps a second glass, the one she brought for Clint, down his back.

Natasha smiles.

* * *

The Bartons have a family tradition that revolves around the consumption of numerous dishes that make Laura shake her head and repeat that _'this is so bad'_ and _'we're cutting out junk after this, I mean it this time'_. And fire. A very large fire.

It's not that Natasha necessarily disapproves. But this is her first experience building a fire for anything other than survival, and it feels like an unnecessary risk to have an easily accessible open flame around a toddler that, as she has quickly come to realize, gets into absolutely anything and everything that he is not supposed to get into.

(There was an episode involving a bottle of nail varnish she kept in the _zipped_ inner compartment of her duffel bag and an area rug that the Barton's won't let her pay for.)

Despite her reservations, here they are. In lawn chairs surrounding the raging bonfire, cheeks red and skin tacky from layer upon layer of insect repellent. A tug on her sweatshirt has Natasha looking down to where the Barton spawn is playing in the dirt at her feet.

Cooper has a marshmallow squeezed so tightly in his hand that it's starting to ooze out from between his fingers as he holds it aloft, looking expectant.

"You have it," she tries. "I just had one."

( _Three_ , actually.)

When he doesn't move along, Natasha rolls her eyes and nods, holding out her hand. "Thank you, that's very kind."

"C'mere, Coop. I'll help you toast it."

Barton stoops near the fire and pulls his son into his chest, winding his arms around him to impale the deformed marshmallow onto a stick and help the child hold it into the fire. The boy pushes the stick too far and the tip dips and is dragged through the hot coals and a patch of dirt before Clint adjusts the angle to get it off the ground.

Chuckling at the vaguely disgusted look on her face, Laura winks. "Don't worry. You don't have to eat it. The dirt-covered ones are Clint's territory."

Seeming agreeable to, if not pleased with, his assignment, Barton salutes them both and kisses Cooper's head before he gets to his feet.

For the second time that night, he burns his fingers on his fresh marshmallow and shoves them in his mouth as he scrapes the blackened blob onto a graham cracker. As he wrestles one-handed with the plastic wrapped chocolate, he tips his head at his wife. "Laura, tell her about the thing."

Laura watches until her son toddles safely away from the fire before turning to Natasha.

"We're thinking of trying to make it to the beach this summer," she says. Then, leaning forward and lowering her voice, "I've been trying to convince Clint every year since we've been married, but of course he waits to agree until he have a baby to pack up and piss off with a change of routine."

"What's that?"

She raises her voice and calls over her shoulder, "I said that I love you, honey!"

Watching the exchange with less amusement than she normally would, Natasha pulls her feet up onto her chair and tucks her knees into her sweatshirt to ward off the chill.

"That's…nice."

It _is_ nice. Or it should be.

Natasha shakes her head, trying to muster up the enthusiasm they're clearly waiting for.

_Stop this_ , she reprimands herself. _This family has no obligation to you._

"Take a good look, Natasha!"

Clint is holding Cooper on one hip, with a newly blackened marshmallow held out of the boy's reach in his opposite hand. "You're going to burn worse than this guy did. Huh, Cooper? Russians aren't built for the sun."

The child nods sagely and leans until it looks like he's going to topple out of his father's arms, reaching for a square of chocolate.

_Oh._

So she's-?

Natasha hesitates.

"I'm already on…"

She trails off and frowns, suddenly realizing how strange this word will be coming out of _her_ mouth.

"…vacation," she finishes lamely, seeing no way around it.

Laura snorts. "I think we damaged your perception of vacations. They don't usual involve housekeeping and manual labor."

"Laura no," Clint whines, despondent. (Hopefully, that tone is one she'll learn to recognize as being feigned for humor. Because if it's real, this partnership is doomed.) "I was going to use that."

Flicking her husband hard on the forehead, Laura leans around him to break a piece of chocolate away from the rest and claim it for herself. It's already melting on her tongue when Barton starts to tease her for taking a piece when they all know she's going to end up eating the whole bar, so her retort is undecipherable. She uses a rude gesture to compensate.

Natasha hides a smile behind the rim of her plastic cup. "And SHIELD? They approve?"

"Screw SHIELD."

He lets a fussing Cooper deliver a S'More on a warped styrofoam plate to her lap. Then, reluctantly, he amends, "No, don't screw SHIELD. Is it technically sanctioned? Probably not. But our exact location is a step above classified anyway. And if they don't know where you are, they don't know where you aren't."

There's still an uneasy feeling in her stomach, stemming from being suddenly forced to think about leaving this place and what will happen to her after she does. Which, admittedly, she should be doing far more often than she currently does.

Laura, in her infinite wisdom, picks up on her reluctance and puts a hand on her knee.

"Hey," she says, playfully jostling her. "All good?"

Natasha nods. "Of course."

Clearly doubting her sincerity, Laura studies her face for thoughts that won't come out of her mouth before sighing when she doesn't discover any.

She shrugs and helps herself to the rest of her chocolate bar. "If you're not okay with it, we won't go. Simple as that."

_Simple as that._

After their discussion, Natasha is quiet. And she hates that she's quiet because she knows _why_ she's quiet.

This place.

She hasn't examined the tree line for hidden threats in the last thirty minutes.

Last night, she left her window open. Just…open. No makeshift audible alarm attached to near-invisible fishing line crisscrossing the frame. Natasha wasn't lying in wait, leaning against the wall just under the window, anticipating an attack.

She was sleeping. Cooled by the cool air let in by the open window.

She's…content here.

But she has no delusions of staying here forever.

"Maybe," Natasha says finally. Quietly.

It's getting dark now, and they all shift a little closer to the fire, Laura so close that if she kicked her foot out, it would be swallowed by flames. Barton's ever sharp eyes land on the plate of leftover hotdogs, and Natasha can practically _hear_ him salivating.

"Clint." Laura sounds tired. "No."

But in a flash, he has two in his hand, forgoing buns and condiments completely, and has taken a bite out of both at once.

Wrinkling her nose, Laura waves her hand at him, distancing herself from the whole situation. "I am _not_ taking care of you when you make yourself sick."

"That's okay, Natasha will."

"No."

She tunes them out as they continue their disagreement and turns her attention to Cooper, who is watching his parents carefully, head tilted in concentration. Suddenly he drops to his knees, exponentially faster on four limbs than wobbling precariously on two, and makes a break for the bonfire.

She gives him a second to make the right decision on his own but when he doesn't veer away, she sighs and interferes, scooping him into her arms.

"No," Natasha scolds, "We're not playing with fire."

Cooper pouts.

"Ha, busted!" Clint crows through a laugh. "Tough break, big man. You may have had _us_ clocked, but you weren't counting on Auntie Nat over there."

_Auntie Nat?_

Back in her chair with the Barton spawn in her lap, Natasha gives him a dark look.

Laura leans towards them and captures her son's hands in hers. "Did you get caught, Coop? Hmm? Foiled again?"

He hides is face in Natasha's shoulder, a move that she's recently learned to interpret as ' _I want you to think I'm more upset than I really am so you'll feel guilty and give me what I want'_.

"Poor guy," she smiles. "Never gets to have any fun."

* * *

The next morning, she's up before the sun. And the Bartons.

Natasha is restless, even after making her bed and going through her fifth repetition of her normal morning workout routine. Though she's passed the days where she felt the need to wait for someone to poke their head in and ' _release her_ ' from her room, it still feels strange to wander the house while no one else is conscious. It's the closest Natasha has felt to being alone during the day since she's been at the farm.

She feeds the chickens and divests them of their eggs (the extent of the outdoor chores she's comfortable completing on her own) but when she's done, the family is still sleeping.

Save for one.

"Good morning," she says politely.

Cooper rubs at his eyes, sleep-tousled and cranky, and holds his arms out for her.

Natasha obliges, gently swaying and rubbing his back as he buries his head in her neck.

"Don't fuss," she pleads when it looks like he's going to do just that.

Unsure what to do without Clint or Laura to run interference, she bounces him slightly, biting her lip.

He whimpers.

"Alright," she says, mostly to herself. Like she's just come up with a fantastic plan and decided to implement it.

Then again, more weakly, "Alright…"

Cooper chews on his hand, face still screwed up ominously.

It gives her an idea.

"Breakfast!" Natasha says brightly. "Yes, let's do that."

An hour later, she knocks hesitantly on the master bedroom door, Cooper still on her hip.

"Come in!"

They're both still in bed, and Natasha doesn't know what she's done to them to deserve this.

"Look, Clint," Laura says sleepily. "It's our child."

"Told you he didn't run away from home."

Natasha deposits the baby on the bed and lets him crawl for his parents, who immediately tuck him between them, pressing kisses to whatever part happens to be nearest to their faces. Which leaves her lingering awkwardly at the foot of the bed.

"He may have one of those chocolate balls in his nose."

Frowning, Clint rubs at eyes. "Chocolate balls…you mean Cocoa Puffs?"

She considers that, trying to remember.

"Mhmm."

"Where did he get a Cocoa Puff?"

"Puffs," Natasha corrects, shuffling her feet and forcing herself not to stare longingly out the door. "The others made it into his mouth. Or your couch cushions."

"Sugary cereal _and_ eating in the living room…Auntie Nat is a pushover," Clint says, sounding delighted.

Using her other hand to shield it from the rest of his family's eyes, Natasha aims a rude hand gesture in his direction.

"Natasha, you're a saint," Laura moans, resting her head back on her pillow. "This is the latest we've slept since the little monster was conceived."

"It wasn't any trouble."

_It was._

On her way out the door, she pauses and looks back at them.

"And I think if we went on a vacation, I wouldn't entirely hate it."


End file.
